Even My Language Loves You!
by bipping
Summary: USUK oneshot. There's a reason America spells "colour" without the "u"


**Author's Note: **

Tackling writers' block right now, and who better to attempt to recover with than a nice spot of USUK?

A lot of British things are mentioned in this, and it's safe to assume that, along with Hetalia, I own none of them.

Excuse spelling and grammar mistakes,uploading from my phone.

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><p>England felt his brows furrow in frustration.<p>

He'd done it again.

"Oh, for God's sake," he muttered, briefly skimming the document in front of him, picking up any and all remaining errors.

It was like he had some uncanny knack for finding them.

In the end, he decided to go through the pencil case he had had the foresight to bring, expecting to have to redraft the shit America had produced, and pulled out a yellow highlighter.

And he highlighted them.

And then corrected them.

All the while letting the "Best of Blur" blast through his headphones.

Ah, how he missed Brit Pop.

Good times.

He added another "u" into a word, humming as he did.

He let his head bob from side to side with the music, uncapping his highlighter, running it over yet another word, letting the occasional "Parklife!" slip from him lips.

He then read through the document again.

He scribbled "52" above the first sentence, next to the title.

How the hell did America manage to do this every time?

Every. Bloody. Time.

Even- and he was loathe to think about that froggy wanker- France had a better grasp on the English language.

Although, thinking about it, France usually had a tight grasp on everyt-

Bad thought. Bad thought! England did not want that. At all.

Suddenly, he felt rather sick.

He decided this could be fixed with a cup of tea.

He placed his things back inside his pencil case, unplugged the headphones playing far too loud and wound them around his portable music-playing device, grabbed his shoes from where he'd placed them neatly, by the bed, and slid them on, remembering to double knot the laces. He grabbed his wallet and keycard. He checked his tie was straight, ran a hand through his hair, which was, for a reason completely unknown to him, always a mess, before turning off the light and exiting the room he was staying in.

Remembering what had happened at the last World Meeting when he'd gotten himself a cup of tea, he walked down the minamalistic white corridor, full of identical doors, their only difference being the numbers on plaques placed square in the middle, he prayed that France was... occupied, and wouldn't-

He really didn't want to relive the awkwardness of that meeting. He would lose that chain of thought, and he would lose it now.

God, just thinking about it was giving him a headache.

He cast his mind back to the meeting that had occured earlier that day; America had been annoying, Germany had yelled at America which had made Italy cry, which had made Romano yell and cuss, which had upset Spain, who had tried to appease Romano with a tomato, which had resulted in Spain earning a rather nasty looking black eye. Russia had then started with his traditional offer of "Become one with Mother Russia, da? ^J^ ", which had been taken up by his sister, who had then been dragged kicking and screaming, literally, back to her room by his other sister, who had smiled slightly the entire time. Hungary had squealed every single time two male countries got within an inch of each other, Switzerland kept pointing to the gun he had lodged in his belt whenever France even thought about Liechtenstien, Austria had (very obviously) been listening to Chopin through (badly) hidden headphones and taping the desk as though it were a piano, Japan had avidly taken notes, Korea had groped Hong Kong, Taiwan and China, all of whom's chests were now his property- "They were always my property, chest's originated in Korea!"- Canada didn't bother to show up, an extremely drunk Prussia had gatecrashed, yelling the entire time about how awesome he was, and England had wished he had a decent cup of tea, not the instant shit he had been handed.

Nothing had been achieved.

As per usual.

In the kitchen-type area of the hotel-type thing, he flicked the switch of the kettle, and felt himself relax with the familiar sound of boiling water.

Settling down at a table, and relaxing even further as he sipped his soothing elixir, England began to regret not bringing a book.

He could really go for Dickens right now. Or perhaps Austen.

Actually, he really fancied Christie.

As in, Agatha.

Murder and Miss Marple did go all too well with tea.

Shame he hadn't brought anything.

Maybe his foresight wasn't all he believed it to be previous to that point.

Ah well. The tea would suffice.

Fortunately, he had just placed his tea down when he heard an all-too-familiar, obnoxious American accent yelled, "Dude, FENTON! JESUS CHRIST!" and then promptly burst into hysterics.

England grit his teeth, and closed his eyes.

"So," he began, attempting to keep his voice level, "you've seen that video."

"Hell yes I have, and it's hilarious!" America slapped him on the shoulder, with enough force that, had he been holding it, he would have spilt his tea. "You will forever be Fenton to me now, Iggs."

"Joy," England picked up his tea, and sipped it, hoping it would calm him enough to get him through this conversation.

"You should change your National Anthem!" America exclaimed. "Put that line in it!"

The tea wasn't working.

It wasn't working to the extent that that line caused England to spit it back up, and spray his shirt with a few specks of it. "What the bloody hell America?"

"You know, that dog's like a national icon, right? So put him in the National Anthem!"

Deep soathing breaths. That's all he needed. "And how, pray tell, would that work?"

"Um..." America concentrated for a while. "How does your National Anthem actually go?"

Rolling his eyes, England began to recite, "God save our Gracious Quee-"

"Hey!" yelled America. "You stole that! You stole that from a song about me!"

If England only had a gun...

He didn't, and so would have to rely on words, and words alone.

"Git, I did not! You stole the fucking son-"

"Whatever," interrupted America, causing England's face to turn even redder. "Just carry on so I can tell you how stupid it is, and where you need to add the new lines!"

Fuming, England closed his eyes, clenched his fists, and decided to be the better man, and continue. "God save our Gracious Queen, Long live our Noble Queen, God save the Queen, Send her vic-"

"There!" cried America, pointing, his blue eyes twinkling merrily behind his glasses, much like J.K. Rowling describes Dumbledore's doing on multiple occasions. "I know the next bit, and you should change it!"

England recoiled. "You- You know my National Anthem?"

"Duh," muttered America. "Kinda. I mean, don't you know mine?"

"Um," England bit his lip. "Something about seeing stuff in the early morning light..."

He trailed off at the expression on America's face.

The younger country looked hurt.

He shook his head. "Change the next bit," he said, coughing to hide his dissapointment in England, "to; "Fenton, Oh Jesus Christ," three times."

England shook his head.

Then he hummed the tune of "God Save the Queen", and was slightly shocked at how well it worked.

"And say "Jesus Christ, FENTON!" too," America mumbled.

England looked at him. His excited smile had dripped from his lips, along with his boyish charm and arrogance.

Not that England thought America was charmingly boyish.

He didn't find him charming at all.

Ehem.

"Bloody hell, are you really that upset about me not knowing your National Anthem?" he asked in disbelief. "You stole the bloody tune from me any-"

"No I didn't!" America prosted, sounding an awful lot like a child trying to convince their parents magic is real.

"Yes you did. You stole it along with my language. Which reminds me, I was planning on having a little word with you about your spelling."

America groaned. He knew exactly what was coming.

"I don't know how you managed to change the spelling of sulphur changed," he began, rant mode engaged, "but I can assure you, there's no "f" in sulphur. It's "learnt", not "learned", it's a pavement, not a sidewalk. Torch, not flashlight. How the bloody hell did you come up with flashlight anyway?"

As America opened his mouth to protest, or argue back, or something, but England swiftly silenced him with, "And "colour" is spelt with a "u"!"

"No!" America shook his head. "It's not!"

"IT IS!" England roared, rather like the lion his country was often likened to and represented with. He stood up, his chair flying backwards. "IT IS AMERICA, AND DON'T YOU EVER FORGET IT!"

"Iggy," said America, rather calmly compared to the scream that had just come from the "more elegant and mature and refined, gentlemanly country" that England often claimed to be, "there is a perfectly good reason that "Color" is spelt without a "u"."

"Yeah, because you're a moron," cried England.

"No," America stood also, slower than England, his chair only being slightly disrupted. "It's spelt without a "u" because it doesn't belong there."

At his full height, practically towering above the island nation, and speaking slowly, both gentle and dark as he was, America seemed to demand a certain ounce of respect that England was loathe to give him.

"It does belong there," muttered England, trying not to meet America's deep, blue eyes, but somehow finding his gaze focused on them.

"Nope," America smiled, pleased with himself, like he was about to say something clever (which England thought would be a first). ""U" doesn't belong in "colour". You belong with me."

England felt his heart flutter slightly. "What-?"

America beamed, looking down at the smaller country. "See British Dude? Even my language loves you!"

"America, I don't understand-"

England's sentence was lost as America placed his lips against his.

The older blonde wasn't entirely sure how to react.

He felt his eyes close, but he was sure that was instinct or something.

However, he was totally aware he had a choice when America licked his lips slowly.

He just hoped he didn't make the wrong one by parting his lips slightly and letting the cheeky bugger in.

He decided he hadn't when America finally stopped eating his face.

However, the fact he had allowed it- ENJOYED it- didn't prevent his rant mode from resurfacing.

"What the fuck was that America?" he cried. "You can't just go around fucking kissing people, wanker!"

America smiled lopsidedly. "Dude, you sound like that Italian," he noted, chuckling.

"I bloody well don't!" England protested. "I was just making a point-"

America rolled his eyes, and kissed him again.

England pushed him away.

"Tosspot!" he yelled. "You can't just kiss me everytime you want me to shut up!"

"Awww," America pouted slightly.

That pout was adorable.

Way too adorable for England.

England, who had really, really enjoyed kissing America.

"But- But maybe you can kiss me if you admit you're wrong," he said, smiling slyly.

America, who's eyes had began to gleam at the prospect of kissing England again, asked cautiously, "Wrong about what?"

"Tell me "colour" is spelt with a "u"," England demanded.

America thought about pouting again, but chose that, whatever he had to pay was totally worth it.

Although this one thing might be a struggle.

"Kiss me first," he said, "and then I'll tell you that you were right."

England grit his teeth.

He sat back down.

And he finished his tea.

If America didn't want to admit to being a moronic idiot right at that moment, it was fine by him. He could wait.

He'd already waited this long, hadn't he?

The wanker was going to admit colour was spelt with a "u" if it was the last thing he di-

"I'll admit that colour is spelt with a "u"," America began, "if you admit that grey is spelt with an a."

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><p><strong>Extended AN:**

I don't know what this is. I think it was inspired by some Social Studies lesson I was in, in which we had a conversation like that.

I've had the line, "There's no "u" in "colour" because you belong with me" for a while. I think it's kinda sweet or whatever. I suppose this was just an excuse to use it.

Okay, a few notes I need to make on this fic:

-Yes, England is a Blur fan. Why wouldn't he be? Blur are awesome. The song he's listening to is called "Parklife". Look it up if you've never heard it. It's impossible to listen to without singing along or bobbing your head or something.

-The awkwardness of the last meeting is a shameless reference to another one-shot of mine, entitled "The Troublesome Tea". If you want to know more, you should read it [England spills his tea, awkwardness ensues]

-Dickens, Austen and Christie are great authors, but, out of the three, Agatha Christie is my personal favourite. Miss Marple, if you are unaware, is an elderly woman who solves crimes.

-Fenton the dog is a dog who runs across a field chasing dear whilst his owner yells, "JESUS CHRIST!"

Thanks for reading! I'm gonna leave a bit of information about my other stories here, if you follow them it might be interesting to you, if not, review if you so wish, it would please me greatly.

Reversal: IS NOW FINISHED! Woot!

Normality: Currently halfway through the third chapter. I'm hoping to have that up by Easter.

Insert Witty Title Here: Second chapter is finished! I just need to type it up, and will do ASAP

Also, expect a GerIta one-shot sometime before Easter, it was requested a while back and is proving to be harder to write than I first expected.

Once again, thanks for reading. I hope you enjoyed it and stuff!


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